


I’m struggling to exist with you (and without you)

by completist



Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Angst, Background Case, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, hints of Diana/Lois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/completist/pseuds/completist
Summary: In the aftermath of Superman's death, Bruce inadvertently finds his own way of grieving.





	I’m struggling to exist with you (and without you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KathrynShadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathrynShadow/gifts).



> Prompt fill for: [TRAGIC AI/TRAGIC BAT FRIENDSHIP Y/Y](https://kittyolsen.dreamwidth.org/427.html#EDILives)
> 
> I guess I went too wild and angsty on this one T-T I'm not sure if I hit all the right spots but this was really fun to write!
> 
> Thanks so much to [knoxoursaviour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior) for beta-ing this fic! Love lots, Lauren! uwu~

 

**PART ONE**

 

i.

 

There’s a new glass case in the cave. Quite unlike the one with the suit painted in mocking yellow paint. Nor quite like the ones in the secluded area housing tokens and trophies acquired in over twenty years, no.

There’s a new glass case in the cave, housing a broken cowl still covered in grime, and a kevlar suit dented in more ways than one. Both still covered in all sorts of dirt and filth. And if you put either of them under some kind of test, you’ll see traces of a radioactive element on its surface.

There’s a new glass case in the cave, and it will steal your eyes every time you enter the place.

 

 

ii.

 

He stood waiting in some alley, cloaked in the dark.

A predator waiting for its prey.

Right here, with his feet touching Gotham ground, the city feels more leveled. More controlled than it has been for the last two years. Here, on the ground, rather than perched atop one of the buildings, the city feels like a maze. A maze of twisting neighborhoods, districts. A maze of all sorts of society classes, home to the elites and to those on the other end of the societal staircase. But here is the one place where the extremes of a scale that are never destined to meet, ironically, _meet._

It’s not so much a maze but a grid; straight lines intersecting and creating order. The only constant _order_ in the chaos of this city. And he knows it like the back of his hand.

 

 

iii.

 

The news, when it bursts, tends to spread like wildfire.

From the elite social circles, to back alleys, to the darkest pits of underground businesses.

It spreads like wildfire. But it doesn’t quite reach the breadth to be considered a disease. Not yet. There’s only one other person who can do that as easily as breathing and existing.

Batman watches as some men haul the truck — whose cargo he’s been trailing for three days now — open.

Luthor steps out, his head bowed down. His wrists cuffed with chains connected to the ones around his feet. Four guards flank him, then they all begin the rather slow walk up to Arkham Asylum.

Their conversation plays in his mind, clear as day. He can still feel the sizzling heat of the brand in between them and Luthor’s controlled breathing before him.

 

_Oh, look at us._

_This is how it all caves in. Civilizations on the wane, manners out the window._

The door to the Asylum smoothly opens, a doctor accompanied by two nurses welcomes them, and with a loud bang, the door closes.

 

_But the bell’s already been rung._

He stays for a minute. Or two. Or maybe it was the whole night. He stays just to ensure that no one else will come out. But it doesn’t change anything, _wouldn’t_ change anything.

Because the _bell’s already been rung._

iv.

 

Gotham has most one would want in a city, and everything one wouldn’t.

 

 

v.

 

“This is crown jewels here, Mr. Wayne.” Waller says, dragging the words out as her hand slips from her fork to the stem of her wine glass. “And you do understand my legal exposure. If anyone knew what I procured for you...”

Bruce clenches his jaw. “Listen, I can keep a secret, okay?” _God knows, he could._ “What do you want?”

“People are asking questions about Midway City. The kind of people who can get answers and if they get those answers, they will have my head on a pike.”

“Consider yourself under my protection,” Bruce offers, tilting his head almost imperceptibly, “If you deliver.”

Waller leans back in her seat, heaving a deep sigh. She purses her lips and gives Bruce a calculating looking before reaching for the bag on her right. Bruce skims through the file, just enough to see what he needs. _Moone, Allen, Curry_. Allen’s photograph looks more recent than the ones in Luthor’s files.

“Why, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce tucks the file into his bag before answering, “Just like to make some new friends.”

“That’s the difference between us,” Waller says, huffing a disbelieving breath as she reaches for her wine. “You believe in friendship, I believe in leverage.”

 _Friendship._ The word rolls weirdly in his mind, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, at the back of his throat. As if he would ever be granted that. No, this isn’t friendship, this is necessity. One that he would fulfill if it’s the last thing he would do.

 

_I’ve failed him in life. I won’t fail him in death._

 

Bruce stands, not even sparing her a glance. “Goodnight.”

“You look tired,” Waller calls out. “You should stop working nights.”

Looking back, Bruce lets his voice drop, his hand gripping the bag tighter, “You should shut it down.

“Or my _friends_ and I would do it for you.”

 

 

 

vi.

 

The statue stands tall and proud in the middle of Heroes Park. Scent of various flowers fills the air, lingering with the thick sense of mourning. The statue stands regal, so close to the real thing. The lines of his shoulders strong and unyielding, the furrow of his brows deep in focus, thin lips set in determination.

But the eyes. The eyes have the same depth of hollowness as he did with his chest cracked open.

Bruce turns back before his foot settles on the last step that would have him standing under the shadow of a past.

 

 

 

vii.

 

“Tea, master Bruce.” Alfred offers, his voice booming in the silence of the cave.

Bruce looks up, nods, then accepts the cup. The central bank of computers shows the files from Waller and Luthor, cross checking each and finding both the common and differing information between the two. His gaze darts from one to another, hoping more information on the Kryptonian will show up.

Foolishness begins to creep into his mind, rearing its ugly head at the hopeful thought. There’s nothing here. Luthor knows who he is, who Superman is. If it’s not in these files, it’s in his mind. And Waller’s data merely checks out with Luthor’s.

“There’s nothing here, Alfred.” Bruce declares as his fingers begin flying across the keyboard.

“There is something for everything,” Alfred replies from his place at the workshop, “If only one is patient enough to look, and wise to know where to look.”

 

 

 

viii.

 

He pauses. Shoulder stiffening as he feels Alfred’s heavy gaze on him.

“Are you both, or neither?” And as if on second thought, “Master Bruce...”

 

 

 

ix.

 

He’s running.

 

Towards the dust and debris of a falling building.

 

From the heat of laser melting steel buildings upon contact.

 

Towards a burning warehouse and screams of anguish.

 

From (or is it towards? he can’t tell, he can’t ever tell which way it is) the phantom laughter of the insane.

 

Towards the barren world and into the hands of the enemy in blue and red.

 

From the parade of the dead.

 

And into a dark abyss.

 

 

 

x.

 

Martha is holding up. She’s beginning to find solace in Lois’ presence and their shared grief.

Bruce allows himself to loosen his mind on that matter. For now.

 

 

 

xi.

 

There’s nothing more he could get from Luthor. He acquired some of his notes quite easily, secured his company, put some surveillance on the politicians he had gotten involved with before, and made sure to clean his records on anything that might involve the metahumans and Clark.

“I took the liberty of assuming you’d prefer breakfast in the cave for this morning, master Bruce.” Alfred says in lieu of greeting, setting a tray of sandwiches, coffee and the morning paper — _Gotham Gazette_ and _The Daily Planet_ — beside him.

His hand first reaches for the coffee, then to the _Daily Planet._ He skims through the broadsheet, eyes darting across headlines, names, dates. He sees the small-time news Lois Lane had written and takes his time to read.

He sets the paper down and brings the cup of coffee to his lips. Everyone has their own ways of grieving.

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred gives an acknowledging hum before clearing his throat, “There are reports of minor explosions around Gotham. It’s not just the homeless now who can hear it.”

Bruce gives an acknowledging grunt, his mind already conjuring up the data from previous reports. Gotham has an intricate web of underground mechanisms and a foundational stronghold that can be more confusing than the ones that see daylight. He’ll see to it again later, when everything will look more concrete before him and he wouldn’t need to force his mind to focus on the tangible things here in the present, instead of the glimmering wisps of the past.

Sometimes though, he wonders if he’s doing these things efficiently enough.

 

 

 

xii.

 

“Ms. Prince sends her regards,” Alfred mentions while presenting Bruce the new gadgets and tech he’ll be using for tonight’s mission. “Are you quite sure on this, master Wayne? You’d rather venture into old lands than to new plains?”

Bruce tucks the last of the gadgets in, the corner of his lips twitching, “I’d rather be the patient _and_ the wise one. Not that I seem to be doing a good job of it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**PART TWO**

i.

 

The newest military-spec electronic countermeasure systems Batman has rivals what the rest of the world has been using.

Tonight, he’ll see if it could be the best out there.

He strategically placed them around the makeshift laboratory S.T.A.R. Labs have set, the perimeter of the covered grounds spacious enough to cater tech and a handful of scientists and military personnel.

It should be easy. Activate the system, swap one camera feed to another, and he’s in.

It should be plain and simple with these people. But never with _this_ kind of thing.

 

 

ii.

 

Causation is the product of the mind, not of the world.

 

 

iii.

 

The interior of the ship is sleek; patterns and shapes carved into the wall show intricate sloping and arching designs. The inside gives a cool atmosphere, quiet, although not in the disconcerting kind of way but rather like the stillness of water, calm and comforting. The chrome-like walls look smooth to the touch, cold and imposing.

Several paths converge and diverge at different points, lit up by portable laboratory luminaires. Batman’s steps are almost silent as he trudges up the path with only the information he got from Luthor backing him up. He doesn’t particularly like that, but it has to do.

The path ahead is blocked but it smoothly opens once he gets close enough. Batman’s eyes flicker to the control system to his right before walking in, his mind running inventory on the weapons he has with him that could potentially open it. He walks forward, slowly, and switches the cowl’s vision to thermal imaging.

The interior of the chamber is littered with rubble, all haphazardly thrown to the sides. The orange liquid glows in the low light, clear and unmoving.

Walking to the control pod on his left, Batman switches his vision back to normal. The console is cold to the touch; he raises a hand over it, before moving to its center, passing the pad of a gloved finger over the hole. He remembers Luthor’s notes, his spidery writing and messy sketches, the squares — boxes — containers — he can’t tell yet, the narrative report filed by the team that caught Luthor, the piece of metal that fell out of the leatherbound.

His other hand reaches for a pocket in his belt, pulling out the heavy metal with Superman’s insignia. Holding it out between him and the pod, he weighs the metal in his hand, contemplating. The ship’s a wreck around him, the whole place still and quiet. No one even realized he’s there and it's been nearly seven minutes, but lighting up the whole chamber might alert them to his presence.

Glancing at the only exit, Batman presses the key into the pod and watches as the whole chamber lights up.

 

 

iv.

 

Diana wouldn’t approve of this.

 

 

v.

 

_Welc_

_Wel_

_Welco_

_“ **Welcome. Analysis reveals that the ship is operating at 3% efficiency.** ” _

Batman’s lips twitch at the number.

**_“Would you like to assume command?”_ **

“No.”

A pause. Batman feels the ship vibrate around him, feels the tremor beneath his feet and his hand darts to the key, ready to pull it out.

 ** _“Then what would you like to do?”_** the voice — the _ship —_ asks, their tone wondering.

“I want to know.” Bruce admits, though he leaves out what he _specifically_ wants to know; a foolish thought passing by that the ship could possibly know it before him.

**_“Very well. The Kryptonian Archive contains knowledge from 100, 000 different worlds...”_ **

**** Now, Batman tilts his head at the numbers.

**_“Where would you like to begin?”_ **

**** “The insignia on the key.”

**_“The insignia is that of the House of El, an ancient Kryptonian family line. The House of El is one of the noble ruling families who were reportedly descended from the great sun god Rao himself. The key was specifically made by Jor-El, a scientist born in Kandor, Krypton; spouse to Lara Lor-Van, and father to Kal-El.”_ **

The key got here, on Earth, presumably with Superman rather than with General Zod, judging by the insignia. _Kal-El_. Societal influence on familial set-up would have made them very specific with names. He wonders though, how the names are woven together, but decides against it at the moment; right now he needs to be sure of something.

There are only a couple of things he can think of that would explain why the key is here. It also didn’t get past him that the ship said ‘were’.

“And where is Kal-El?”

**_“Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van sent him away from the destruction of Krypton. Recent information indicates he is here on Earth, in the Sol System.”_ **

****_Destruction of Krypton._ Something not all Kryptonians have survived. Given the strength and powers that Superman — _Kal-El_ — exhibited, there must be some factors, some technicalities, some pawn in the game resulting to a planet’s destruction, and consequently a species’ (near) current extinction that couldn’t be saved by all that power.

_But the bell’s already been rung._

“Tell me about Kryptonian biology.”

 

 

vi.

 

He stalks the streets of Gotham later that night, straining his ears to the hurried whispers of men. Some of them have their hands placed upon their guns seemingly for comfort. His frown deepens.

There’s something beneath Gotham, something that doesn’t want to be seen.

And somehow, these criminals have another _thing_ to fear.

 

 

vii.

 

**_“In relation to humans of Earth, Kryptonians possess similar characteristics most noticeable in their DNA and capability of speech. Some differences lie in their internal organs and densities of body tissues. Kryptonians originally grew under a red sun; analysis, however, of Kal-El shows drastic changes in physical performance while under the influence of a yellow sun.”_ **

****

 

viii.

****

Lucius welcomes him with a folder in his hand. He looks tired, the lines on his face more pronounced, though the spark in his eyes seems brighter than before.

“That Kryptonian scout ship. The one S.T.A.R. Labs has been tinkering with.”

“Yes, I’m aware of its existence.”

“Yes, you are. More than that, if I may,” Lucius replies, his tone a little chiding. He raises the folder between them for emphasis and puts it in front of Bruce, “Consider it. I’m sure that amount of tech could help.”

“Alright,” Bruce pulls the folder close to him, opening to the first page and skimming through the information and data he finds that he already knows, “Tell me when we’ll see it.”

 

 

ix.

 

Batman watches, crouched atop one of the higher buildings in Gotham, his gaze trained ahead — at the scene a little more than fifty yards across him, on an open rooftop.

The flapping of wings provides a constant background in the exchange, rhyming with the whimpering of the man beneath it. Batman trains the weapon on its head, looking through the scope to observe its face.

Sharp teeth bared, but there are no clear words coming out other than a lot of hissing. It keeps on sniffing the man as it holds him up by the collar. Its red eyes luminous against the dark backdrop of Gotham sky, its torso lighting up from time to time, as if in time with its breathing.

The man frantically shouts and Batman fires a warning shot. The thing turns its ugly head on him and Batman fires another round to one of its wings. Then it rears back, howling before flying away and disappearing.

Just as quick, Batman fires a grapple and launches himself across to check on the man. Kneeling before him, his eyes dart from point to point. Assessing physical manifestations of his emotions.

He’s sweating profusely, his breathing ragged as his body trembles all over, eyes frantically moving to see but not quite _seeing_. Batman slowly extends his hands, waiting for the other to lower his and reach back.

Just as slowly, Batman lightly circles his fingers to his wrists, feeling for the pulse. _Tachycardic._

“Can’t—” The man tries to speak, heaving deep breaths. “Can’t breathe.”

“It’s alright,” Batman began, his own breathing deliberate. “You’re alright. You’ll be fine. You’re safe now.”

 

_False promises._

 

 

x.

 

At this point, Bruce feels that he has exhausted all meaning to those words.

 

 

xi.

 

 ** _Fear_** _,_ in stark red ink, encircled, marks the map of ideas he has formed regarding the missing persons and the underground bombings.

Alfred comes in and stops beside him, hands on his waist. “He’s fine now. GCPD is talking to him.”

“I know, Alfred. It was _close._ But we got what we need.” Bruce gestures to the board before throwing the pen to the table to his right. “Fear.”

“A rather familiar concept, yes.”

Bruce nods, crossing his arms. “Yes. And it feeds on it.”

 

* * *

 

 

**PART THREE**

 

i.

 

“What of Kal-El, when he’s here on Earth?” Batman asks, the fingers of his right hand straying towards the key as he once again stands by the control pod.

 ** _“There isn’t much information regarding that topic on the Archive,”_** the ship answers, voice turning low, almost melodramatic. Batman blinks, mentally shrugging the foolish thought. **_“However, may I suggest a new trail of knowledge?”_**

****

“What could that be?”

**_“Clark Kent.”_ **

****

 

ii.

 

Bruce opens the email.

 

_Thursday. 4pm. Some of the board members will accompany us._

And if that isn’t the subtle way of Lucius’ to tell him to tone it down, Bruce doesn’t know what is. He wonders though, if he really is that easy to read by now.

 

Twenty years in Gotham might have done that.

 

 

iii.

 

 ** _“Clark seemed lost when he first came here,”_** the ship offers that night, speaking after a few seconds of silence between them that stretched to minutes. **_“Much like you are, Bruce Wayne.”_**

****

**_“You need not be surprised that I know. Kryptonian technology is far more advanced than that of humans’. And the fact the I am given an almost endless access with all of these experiments made it easier to know. However, I can remain silent if you wish.”_ **

****

Bruce isn’t surprised that the ship knows who he is. It — _they, because he wouldn’t dare mistake it for any societal gender construct of humans merely because of the voice he hears —_ they are constructed with technology far more advanced than what this planet has. What surprises him though, is how it seems almost sentient, seemingly trying to offer comfort. In a way that is so achingly familiar.

 

Once again, his hand itches to grab the key from the control pod and keep the secret to himself.

 

**_“Unlike you, he’s willing to know the answers.”_ **

 

 

iv.

 

Diana is still keeping on her own. And Bruce wouldn’t dare shatter that isolation.

Lois remains a silent yet observing presence in her career. Though she seems closed off, avoiding even the biggest scoops offered directly to her by Bruce.

“There’s no need for this, Mr. Wayne,” Lois said, her thumb caressing the ring on her finger. “I’m well. Going well, that is. I understand your sentiment, but this gesture is unnecessary.”

And so, Bruce backed off.

 

 

v.

 

Bruce sketches the ring on a tissue paper during the car ride back to the port where the chopper awaits. It was a simple 0.50 carat diamond on a silver band, and if ideally cut — and he totally thinks it _is_ — the diamond would be approximately 5.2mm in diameter, the whole ring would be approximately nine to ten grams in weight.

It’s probably worth half a year of his salary as a reporter. If not more than that.

He taps the pen to his thigh and takes a deep breath. Looking out of the window, he sees the silhouette of the statue at Heroes’ Park and stares. He seeks it out on the ride up in the air, lips set into a thin line. He stares until it’s nothing more than a speck against the city lights of bright Metropolis. A frail attempt to cast the shadow of its protector again on the same soil that once condemned him.

 

_They don’t know how to honor him, except as a soldier._

 

 

vi.

 

Most times these days, he thinks he doesn’t know either.

 

 

vii

 

 ** _“You’re bleeding,”_** the ship announces, their tone matter-of-fact. **_“I could call upon one medical robot without spending more than two percent of the ship’s energy reserves.”_**

 

“Don’t bother,” Batman replies. He sits instead on the floor, his feet extending near the still orange liquid in the chamber. Pulling out a first aid kit from his belt and quickly treating the cut under his left arm, he continues, “I’ll be fine.”

 

 ** _“Yes,”_** the ship agrees, **_“by human standards, you didn’t lose enough blood to not be fine.”_**

****

He finds himself chuckling at the ridiculousness of the situation. Raising his head, he looks at the arching slopes of the chamber’s ceiling, the curves seemingly moving as he turns to look around, the darkness shifting.

 

This, at least, looks familiar.

 

 

viii.

 

The computers in the cave have access to almost every nook and cranny the world wide web has to offer.

Bruce stays up late on Wednesday night, reading articles from a high school campus in Kansas, a pretty well-named university, and the _Daily Planet._

He sees the pattern in writing, traversing the trail of thought in every piece; how it was honed throughout the years, how the complexities of each article were investigated, known and transformed into words prepared to make empires crumble down, or build kingdoms from the ground up.

Clark Kent was well on his way to doing just that.

 

_~~Was.~~ _

ix.

 

The scientists of S.T.A.R. labs stood waiting for them to arrive.

One man has his hands casually hidden in the pockets of his lab gown. He’s the first one to step forward.

“Mr. Wayne, Mr. Fox.” The man shakes hands with each of them, greeting them first before all the others behind them. Bruce smiles, nodding in acknowledgement as his eyes move discreetly among the crowd.

“I’m Dr. Silas Stone.”

Stopping himself from turning abruptly to the man, Bruce schools his features to look mildly interested. With his gaze focused on Dr. Stone, he sees the tell-tale signs of lack of sleep — the bags under his eyes, the rapid blinking, the discreet yawning before they stepped out of the car earlier slotting its place in the scenario, the coffee stains on the corner of the handkerchief sticking out of the front pocket of his pants, the crooked way in which the pen hands in the right breast pocket of his lab gown. His shoulders are bunched together as if in constant worry, muscles tightened though he doesn’t seem to know; or at least, he doesn’t _recognize,_ doesn’t _acknowledge._ Refuses too. As it might be in some cases. His hands though. His hands are steady, his grip tight and sure as he shakes hands in greeting, and his eyes seem focused, more levelled as he speaks.

This is a man who is at a place he knows, albeit slightly uncomfortable. His body language is open, not too guarded but not entirely _un_ guarded with his hands finally out of his pockets, torso turned to address all of them but his feet pointing to Lucius and him.

His features and build are familiar too. But Bruce can’t place them quite yet, fully knowing too that this isn’t the time to jump to conclusions even if the evidences check out. Nor is he in the place to draw too broad of a deduction.

“Ah. Finally, Dr. Stone,” Lucius smoothly greets beside him. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m sorry to hear about your son.”

Dr. Stone nods, eyes casted downwards as he swallows, his foot momentarily rises as if to step back, one hand going back to his pocket, fisted. And when he looks up, it all seems behind them.

“Mr. Fox, it is a pleasure to meet you too. Thank you for accepting our proposal and extending it to Mr. Wayne here and the rest of the board of Wayne Enterprises.”

“Of course, but don’t thank me yet.” Lucious nods, gesturing to the suited men around them and Bruce interjects, his tone light and filled with mirth.

“We haven’t decided yet.”

“We’ll try not to disappoint, Mr. Wayne.”

Light laughter erupts and Bruce follows as they step towards the Kryptonian scout ship.

 

 

x.

 

For someone who lost a son, Dr. Stone is fairly good at internalizing it. He allows none of his grief to bleed through, his posture always sure and professional. Bruce finds himself listening closely to his words.

 

“We think the ship might have been here _hundreds_ of years before Superman or—” Dr. Stone shrugs— “the others who arrived. But it is still so advanced we have barely grazed the surface of it.”

 

 

xi.

 

His steps feel heavy with each one taken after the other. The ship feels bordered, shaded, _heavy_ around him. Unlike all those times before.

Dr. Stone shows them around, discussing things Bruce finds that he already knows. Though he asks a question or two, Bruce makes sure to look nonchalant and uncaring as _Bruce Wayne_ would.

“And this, this is the _Genesis Chamber,_ ” Dr. Stone introduces as they all simultaneously step inside. He is nothing if not a considerate host, his excitement on the prospect of what the ship _could be_ is infectious. Considering how Lucius is now looking at the whole place too — Bruce is sure he already has at least nine ideas for new tech ripped out of this place.

The whole tour so far looks promising. The scout ship provides immense technological potential that when harnessed — could significantly thrust earth’s own tech forward. Dr. Stone and his team all seem up to the job, and they all look qualified for it. Add to that, is the confidence Lucius has on Dr. Stone.

They walk towards the Genesis Chamber, the path familiar to Bruce yet still different as he walks down wearing a different armor. Physically, nothing’s changed. The walls look sleek and cold to the touch, the ceiling domed and looming, the path unblocked and the door smoothly opens to let them in.

Then they all stop, eyes wide at the life suddenly filling the chamber when Bruce steps in last. Lucius freezes before him, one hand straying to his back and Bruce’s eyes dart to the control pod to their right,

 

To the curling and curving ceilings above,

 

To the still orange liquid,

 

To the rippling walls,

 

Willing the _ship_ not to speak.

 

A second. Two. _Three_ … the ground beneath their feet vibrates, _pulsing,_ then it **stops**.

 

Lucius sends him a look.

 

“Apologies, ladies and gentlemen. That hasn’t happened before,” Dr. Stone says, his tone placating. “Don’t worry, it’s not much, since the ship doesn’t have enough energy reserves to make any of these chambers function fully.”

 

 

xii.

 

Bruce feels the thrum of interest bloom around him, the scientists finding the little event absolutely _riveting_ and the businessmen finding it to be a _good enough_ reason to possibly pursue this endeavor.

 

He and Lucius exchange a look.

 

 

* * *

 

**PART FOUR**

 

 

i.

 

Bruce isn’t sure if they should fund the research. The ship has a _lot_ of information and under the wrong hands it could be incredibly destructive.

Under his _own_ hands, it could be incredibly destructive. He’s seen the result of that; he’s _living_ the result of that.

“So, how do you plan on connecting with these metahumans?” Alfred asks, putting a cup of coffee on one of the tables in the cave before dropping into a chair in front of the computer, fingers flying across the keys to pull up surveillance.

“Tell them our cause.”

“The cause—” says Alfred, pushing his glasses up— “You mean waging war because of three boxes, which we don’t even know the contents of.”

“Just a thought.” He shrugs before standing up, bringing the files on the scout ship with him. “I’ll figure out something better.”

“How about Miss Prince?” Alfred calls out. “You have her number.”

Bruce turns, his eyebrows raised and his tone light, “No, _you_ have her number.”

 

 

ii.

 

Luthor is talking nonsense, at least to the doctors he is.

 

He talks of winning, says that the god is dead and they will come to reclaim what’s theirs. All thanks to him. And when the time comes — and it _will_ come — he’ll be out there to enjoy the ruins.

 

The doctors prefer this state of insanity on Luthor but Batman doesn’t like his confidence.

 

 

iii.

 

“We have no concrete lead yet on the half-man, half-machine, so we keep searching for Allen. He’s likely moving places and from what we’ve seen, he’s fully capable of that. And fast at it too,” Bruce explains, his hand outstretched to the computers. Diana nods beside him. “Curry is currently the easiest to find. We simply have to wait until the King Tide.”

Diana unfolds her arms. “And how is Mrs. Kent? And Ms. Lane?”

“Thought I’d be the one asking you that.” He staggers at the sudden change of topic, but he recognizes its importance just as much. Putting his hands into his pockets, Bruce shifts so he can face her fully.

“Bruce,” Diana purses her lips, “as far as I know Lois is...” She shrugs, folding her arms across her chest again and giving Bruce sidelong glances. “Lois is trying her best. It’s Mrs. Kent that worries me.”

“I’ve got an eye out for both of them,” Bruce replies, “Right now, we’ve got to focus on this.”

It feels like an eternity as Diana just keeps on staring at him. It feels like a game, like a measure of _something,_ that if he turns away first he’ll lose.

“Very well,” Diana finally says. “I will help you.”

“Thank you.”

 

 

iv.

 

Sometimes, Bruce wonders if there’s ever a limit to the kinds of people he’ll meet in his lifetime.

 

In the end, he could only think of one limit that exists.

 

 

v.

 

“What is it like out there?” Batman asks the ship one night, while actively ignoring the slowly bleeding gash in his right arm. “What is Krypton like?”

 

 ** _“The universe is vast and complicated. It has diverse cultures from different systems. Some of them clash, becoming chaotic. Some of them mingle, rhyming into one melodic song. Entropy is constant, and what seems like a random change to your eyes affects the universe greatly.”_** The ship pauses and light erupts from the arching ceiling to form holographic images above the orange liquid for him to see. **_“This is Krypton with its diverse culture and advance scientific mechanisms. Its people never allow themselves to bleed like what I’ve seen of you here on Earth._**

****

**_“Its people speak of Krypton to be many things. Thus, requiring many things as well. For centuries, they seek to know the universe. Traveling, searching for something. Its poets speak of the planet seeking the mysteries, the_ ** **secrets _of the universe; however difficult it may be to do so.”_**

****

Batman takes off his cowl, seeing the images that look so real, so _solid_ with his own eyes, with his vision unhindered. “Krypton is beautiful.”

 

 ** _“Yes, it is,”_** the ship replies, **_“but it’s gone now. They’re all gone now. So I suppose it was.”_**

 

Bruce clenches his fist and averts his gaze.

 

**_“What of earth, Bruce Wayne? What is your world like?”_ **

 

 

vi.

 

Earth is beauty and agony. It’s sorrow and joy. Earth is the illusion of order and the epitome of chaos.

 

The world was a dining room filled with laughter and a table filled with food for four. It was days spent running and playing under the sun in a lush lawn. It was the strong beat of a heart heard through a stethoscope in the rainy nights, the soft voice that calmed after a nightmare — the same voice capable of reprimanding and does not hesitate to do so when needed. The world was the glass of milk before bed, and two searing kisses on a forehead.

 

The world was the clanking of pearls on the pavement, and the blood dripping on a scarf — a gift from two years past.

 

Earth is the shout of life and the silence of death. The flapping wings in the sky and the slow crawl on the ground. It is everything from all walks and kinds of life. It is the people who choose to live, and the people who choose to survive.

 

The world was the tiny hand slotting into place with his. The world was the silent plea of comfort when the nightmares that resembled his too closely haunted the boy at night. It was the determined set of a jaw and the jovial laughter filling a too gloomy cave. It was the silly nicknames bestowed on techs, the breathtaking jumps onto the high ceilings of a home now burnt down.

 

The world was the rather silly attempt to steal a wheel attached to a car far better than the military-grade ones that government tries to make the public gush upon and the terrorists be terrified of. The world was the smart comebacks and the strong punches. The world was the prodigy hardened and grounded by reality.

 

The world was shattered by a crowbar, marred in yellow paint, and left to burn.

 

 

vii.

 

**_“Earth is…”_ **

 

Misery—

Stunning—

Pain—

Joy—

 

**_“...rather complicated.”_ **

****

****

viii.

 

The world is the chiding comments whenever breakfast is served. The hardened gaze after the battles on harsh nights, the gentle hand on a bleeding wound. The world is the hand that carefully lays a pressed suit before him, the same hand that can bend steel and wirings and circuits to work harmoniously for the cause. The world is the carefully chosen words spoken at the best of times and the softness of the blanket on his shoulders when he unceremoniously falls asleep on anywhere but his bed.

 

The world is the sound of the heavy metal in his hand hitting just where he wants it to be. The grunts and the shriek of panic when the shadow seemingly moves around him. The heavy cape on his shoulders, the kevlar suit covering his body, the white lenses of the cowl.

 

The world is… wearing him out.

 

 

ix.

 

 ** _“The world,”_** the ship began, sounding wistful, **_“doesn’t deserve the likes of you and Kal-El, Bruce Wayne.”_**

****

“No.” Bruce shakes his head. “Only Kal-El.”

 

 

x.

 

Fear. It knows fear.

 “What the hell?” Alfred exclaims, but his voice sounds distant to Bruce’s ear as he stares at what is left of it.

 “What was that?”

 “It’s a scout.” Bruce says, ignoring the thug limping towards him.

 “From space? Like an alien army?”

 “Are you seeing this?”

 “I am. It matches the other sightings,” Alfred replies, “And that pattern is all over Luthor’s notes too.”

 “Prep the jet. We’re going north tonight.”

 “Ah, it’s time then.” Alfred remarks. Bruce listens to the sound of buttons clicking in the background as he prepares to take the jump to another building. Away from the heart of Gotham.

 “Yes, but I’ll make a little detour first.”

 The moment _the thing_ detonates itself, Bruce already has his mind moving to everything the ship has ever told him. Stopping at one vital point.

 

**_“The Kryptonian Archive contains knowledge from 100, 000 different worlds...”_ **

 

“It’s because he’s dead, isn’t he?” The thug calls out, “Superman. He’s dead. That’s why they’re coming.”

 He never looks down whenever he takes jumps, or when he shoots a grapple and launches himself to the cold air and into the Gotham sky.

 But this time, he did.

 

 

xi.

 

“Three boxes. Always three. I’m not sure what they are. In illustrations there are always three. Squares. Containers,” Batman says, “Whatever it is. Anything you know about it?”

 

**_“You might be talking about the mother boxes.”_ **

****

“What are mother boxes?”

 

**_“Mother boxes are Apokoliptian devices that work better in three. But one alone is powerful enough when harnessed properly. Powerful also meaning dangerous.”_ **

****

Batman clenches his jaw. “What else?”

 

 **_“It can be anything the wielder wants it to be. It can heal, provide knowledge—_ ** **insights _to the universe, it can produce unimaginable amount of energy. It’s life and death.”_**

****

“When I first arrived, you said the ship is running on 3% efficiency,” Batman recalls. “That means the energy reserves are also low.”

 

 ** _“Yes,”_** the ship confirms. **_“Not to mention some of the controls are also damaged. Most are ruined.”_**

****

“Is it capable of fixing the ship?”

 

 **_“It’s life and death, Bruce Wayne. It’s capable of_ ** **more than _fixing a ship.”_**

****

Batman nods. “Thank you.”

 

**_“I wish you good luck on your endeavor, Bruce Wayne. I cannot wait to meet your friends.”_ **

****

“Yeah, well. I hope you won’t hate me like I’m sure they will when you find out what I’m thinking.”

 

Vibrations once again erupt beneath his feet and Bruce takes his time leaving the ship.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bruce T-T u angsty hoe T-T (ilysm)
> 
> To KathrynShadow, I hope u like it, fren :')


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